As faded gloss no rubbing will refresh; As flowers dead, lie withered on the ground; As broken glass, no cement can redress;
So beauty blemish'd once, for ever's lost, In spite of physick, painting, pain and cost.
MELANCHOLY THOUGHTS.
If the dull substance of my flesh were thought, Injurious distance should not stop my way; For then, despite of space, I would be brought To limits far remote, where thou dost stay. No matter then altho' my foot did stand Upon the farthest earth remov'd from thee; For nimble thought can jump both sea and land, As soon as think the place where he would be. But ah! thought kills me, that I am not thought, To leap large lengths of miles when thou art gone; But that so much of earth and water wrought, I must attend time's leisure with my moan; Receiving nought by elements so slow, But heavy tears, badges of either's woe.
The other two, slight air, and purging fire, Are both with thee, wherever I abide; The first my thought, the other my desire; These present, absent, with swift motion slide. For when these quicker elements are gone, In tender embassy of love to thee, My life being made of four, with two alone Sinks down to death, opprest with melancholy; Until life's composition be recured, By those swift messengers return'd from thee, Who even but now come back again assured Of their fair health, recounting it to me.
This told, I joy; but then no longer glad, I send them back again, and straight grow sad.
Sweet rose, fair flower, untimely pluck'd, soon faded, Pluck'd in the bud, and faded in the spring: Bright orient pearl, alack! too timely shaded, Fair creature kill'd too soon by death's sharp sting. Like a green plumb, that hangs upon a tree, And falls (thro' wind) before the fall should be.
I weep for thee, and yet no cause I have; For why? thou left's me nothing in thy will; And yet thou left's me more than I did crave: For why? I craved nothing of thee still:
O yes (dear friend) I pardon crave of thee, Thy discontent thou did'st bequeath to me.
Full many a glorious morning have I seen Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye, Kissing with golden face the meadows green; Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchymy; Anon permit the basest clouds to ride, With ugly rack on his celestial face, And from the forlorn world his visage hide, Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace. Even so my sun one early morn did shine, With all triumphant splendour on my brow; But out, alack! he was but one hour mine, The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now. Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth; Suns of the world may stain, when heaven's sun staineth.
Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day, And make me travel forth without my cloak, To let base clouds o'ertake me in the way, Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoak? 'Tis not enough that thro' the cloud thou break, To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face; For no man well of such a salve can speak, That heals the wound, and cures not the disgrace: Nor can thy shame give physick to my grief; Tho' thou repent, yet I have still the cross; Th' offender's sorrow lends but weak relief To him, that beareth strong offence's cross. Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds, And they are rich, and ransom all ill deeds.
No more be griev'd at that which thou hast done, Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud; Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun, And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud. All men make faults, and even I in this, Authorizing thy trespass with compare,
Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss, Excusing their sins more than their sins are: For to my sensual fault I bring incense; Thy adverse party is thy advocate; And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence, Such civil war is in my love and hate, That I an accessary needs must be
To that sweet thief which sorely robs from me.
Let me confess, that we two must be twain, Altho' our undivided loves are one: So shall those blots, that do with me remain, Without thy help, by me be borne alone. In our two loves there is but one respect, Tho' in our lives a separable spite; Which tho' it alter not love's sole effect, Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight. I may not evermore acknowledge thee, Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame; Nor thou with public kindness honour me, Unless thou take that honour from thy name. But do not so; I love thee in such sort, As thou being mine, mine is thy good report.
As a decrepit father takes delight To see his active child do deeds of youth; So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite, Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth. For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit, Or any of these all, or all, or more, Intitled in their part, do crowned sit, I make my love ingrafted to this store : So then I am not lame, poor, nor despis'd, Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give, That I in thy abundance am suffic'd, And by a part of all thy glory live :
Look what is best, that best I wish in thee; This wish I have, then ten times happy me.
Good night, good rest; ah! neither be my share; She bade good night, that kept my rest away; And daft me to a cabbin hang'd with care,
To descant on the doubts of my decay. Farewell (quoth she) and come again to-morrow; Farewell I could not, for I supt with sorrow.
Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile, In scorn, or friendship, nill I construe whether: It may be, she joy'd to jest at my exile; It may be, again to make me wander thither. Wander (a word) for shadows like myself, And take the pain, but cannot pluck the pelf.
Lord! how mine eyes throw gazes to the east! My heart doth charge the watch; the morning rise Doth cite each moving sense from idle rest, Not daring trust the office of mine eyes.
While Philomela sits and sings, I sit and mark, And wish her lays were tuned like the lark.
For she doth welcome day-light with her ditty, And drives away dark dreaming night; The night so packt, I post unto my pretty; Heart hath his hope, and eyes their wished sight; Sorrow chang'd to solace, and solace mixt with sorrow; For why she sigh'd, and bade me come to-morrow.
Were I with her, the night would post too soon, But now are minutes added to the hours:
To spite me now, each minute seems an hour; Yet not for me, shine sun to succour flowers.
Pack night, peep day, good day of night now borrow, Short, Night, to-night, and length thyself to-morrow.
Mine eye hath play'd the painter, and hath steel'd Thy beauty's form in table of my heart: My body is the same wherein 'tis held, And perspective it is best painter's art. For thro' the painter must you see his skill, To find where your true image pictur'd lies, Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still, That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes. Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done; Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me Are windows to my breast, where thro' the sun Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee.
Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art, They draw but what they see, know not the heart.
HAPPINESS IN CONTENT.
Let those who are in favour with their stars, Of public honour and proud roud titles boast: Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars, Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most. Great princes' favorites their fair leaves spread, But as the marigold at the sun's eye; And in themselves their pride lies buried, For at a frown they in their glory die. The painful warrior famoused for worth, After a thousand victories, once foil'd, Is from the book of honour rased quite, And all the rest forgot, for which he toil'd. Then happy I, that love and am beloved, Where I may not remove, nor be removed.
Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit; To thee I send this written embassage, To witness duty, not to shew my wit. Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it; But that I hope some good conceit of thine In my soul's thought (all naked) will bestow it; Till whatsoever star, that guides my moving, Points on me graciously with fair aspect, And puts apparel on my tatter'd loving, To shew me worthy of their sweet respect. Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee; Till then, not show my head, where thou may'st prove (me.
How heavy do I journey on the way, When that I seek (my weary travel's end) Doth teach that ease and that repose to say, Thus far the miles are measur'd from thy friend! The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,
Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me;
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